


temper its strength, adding honey until quite cold

by trill_gutterbug



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Crossdressing, Feminization, M/M, Oral Sex, Shame Edward Little Power Hour, Theatre
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-28
Updated: 2020-05-28
Packaged: 2021-03-03 00:53:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,428
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24416176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trill_gutterbug/pseuds/trill_gutterbug
Summary: Erebus and Terror throw an evening of entertaining pageantry. Edward ends up in the dress.
Relationships: Thomas Hartnell/Lt Edward Little
Comments: 32
Kudos: 73





	temper its strength, adding honey until quite cold

**Author's Note:**

> I have a few things to say. 
> 
> First, there's no way I believe that, during the multiple years these ships were sailing and then icelocked, they never at any point threw a bit of a shipboard benjo?? The Navy was always pulling that goofy business, everyone would have rioted if they didn't regularly didn't get to dress up like scullery maids and chimney sweeps and hit each other with pillows or whatever the fuck. In that spirit, this is set in some hazy period after Franklin got yeeted into the toilet but prior to..... everything that happened thereafter.
> 
> Second, why is Jimmy Fitz the only person on this voyage whose tag comes complete with birth and death dates? I know he's dead!! I'm very aware, thanks, I cry about it every day!! 
> 
> Third, title from [here](https://www.shatnerchatner.com/p/the-best-thing-about-very-old-recipes) because it's the only thing that matters to me anymore.

“Oh,” said Captain Fitzjames, when the skirts had settled around Edward’s ankles and Edward had tugged the tight bodice into approximate position with a clumsy, mortified hand. “Oh, that’s…” He leaned back, looking Edward up and down, eyebrows raised. “Good Lord, Edward, you cut quite the figure.”

Edward’s cheeks burned. “Sir,” he mumbled, “there’s no need to humble me, I’ve no shred of vanity left, I assure you.”

Fitzjames looked surprised. He stepped sideways, regarding Edward from a new angle. His hand opened absently in the direction of Edward’s hip, as though he meant to adjust the lay of fabric there. “I don’t intend to tease,” he said. “Truly, it flatters you.”

Edward wished the ice would open around Erebus and suck her into the deeps so he wouldn't have to hear another word. He stared at the ceiling above Fitzjames’ head, refusing to blink lest his hot eyes betray him. He felt fatal with embarrassment. The dress had been cut for a man, but clearly not quite the sort of man he was. It pinched him around the middle and around the arms, then gave way to an upsetting looseness about the legs, so that there was a draft all the way up his bare thighs. Bare, Fitzjames had insisted, because long breeches might show at the bottom, or interfere with the lay of the horsehair petticoats. Edward didn’t understand how common decency could possibly worsen the whole rubbish situation. The shape and weight of the entire ensemble was wrong. His shoulders and chest were naked halfway to the nipples, which scratched on the linen chemise beneath, and while Edward was no stranger to practical nudity either full or partial, the coquettish cut of the low neckline felt more scandalous than if he’d had his full kit out. No man was meant to display so specific and unnecessary a quadrant to the exclusion of all others. It felt tawdry and explicit. He wished the costume had come with a shawl he could wrap around himself.

“Quite nice,” Fitzjames continued, either blithely ignorant of Edward’s misery or, Edward suspected, enjoying it. “Have you learned your lines?”

“Yes, sir,” Edward replied, although even as he said it he wasn’t sure. His brain was at sixes and sevens. When he got up in front of the men, would he realise he had forgotten every silly jape and antic in the booklet? His knees weakened with terror. Already, last month when Fitzjames had declared the holiday and its attendant entertainment, he’d thought his horror complete. He, who had eschewed choir and public sports as a youth, who panted with anxiety when called before superiors, who had courted only one lady and permitted her to steer every aspect of their brief understanding, participating in a production by the officers for the amusement of the crew? He would almost rather have been flogged, and did consider feigning an illness to excuse himself. But he was no coward, and at the end of the day stiffened his chin when the roles were distributed, assuring himself that collective morale bore out above personal notions of dignity. He suspected thereafter that his existence was the hoax of either a very pernicious or very callous god, for he had immediately drawn the wrong straw - not the short one, but the one marked _Margaret the penny gaffer_ in Mr Jopson’s elegant hand - to a chorus of hoots from his fellow officers, who now only had to fear such humiliations as _Mozzy the court jester_ and _Slackjaw the rat catcher_ for their own parts. 

“Congratulations, Edward,” Captain Fitzjames had said, his eyes crinkling with a smile Edward could only comprehend as mocking, “Margie was a favourite role of mine on the _Ganges_.” 

Fitzjames did reach forward, finally, to fiddle with Edward’s bodice. He tugged it this way and that until Edward could hardly breathe, then pronounced the effect exquisite. Worse, he brushed his palms over Edward’s exposed shoulders to adjust the neckline, pulling it even lower. “Lovely,” he declared. He gestured toward the mirror in the corner of the cabin, inviting Edward to approach. Edward certainly did not want to, but he didn’t want to appear petulant either, or ungrateful for Fitzjames’ assistance. Left to his own devices, he would have been at a loss with all the layers and fastenings. He shuffled toward the mirror and winced at what he saw. Just himself, hairsome and broad, wedged into the blue cotton drapery like a pug swaddled in lace. His muttonchops and untidy fringe, his wide shoulders stretching to capacity what Fitzjames had called the Bertha collar, his swarthy forearms thrust out from the silken funnel sleeves like chicken bones concealed in a pie. 

Fitzjames must have seen the despairing look in his eye, for he patted Edward’s arm and murmured, in a gentler tone, “Remember, lieutenant, it’s a comedy.”

Edward nodded. He touched his plunging waistline with both nerveless hands, shuddering. 

“Let’s get you a drink,” said Fitzjames, displaying even shrewder empathy, and Edward, moved to anguish, groaned, “Yes, sir,” with utmost gratitude.

~*~

It went well. 

Even as it was happening, Edward could hardly believe it. He was braced for catastrophe with every line he managed to recall, every mark on the makeshift stage he managed to reach on time, every howl of laughter from the men. But as the spectacle wore on with no catastrophe forthcoming, he felt an enormous weight lifting from his naked shoulders, until he fairly floated with the ecstatic thrill of success. Irving, in fine form as a blustering general, bellowed his lines with a fervor Edward couldn’t help but admire, and Hodgson, draped in nearly as much frippery as Edward, may well have been possessed by the shade of bumbling Mozzy. Even Captain Crozier, slurring his way through Reverend Aswell’s absurd regional dialect, dedicated himself gamely. Fitzjames, pious in priest’s robes, droned on and on until the men were hysterical with laughter, falling against each other in Erebus’ tightly packed hold. As the leveler ship, both crews - save a skeleton left to tend Terror - had crowded aboard their erstwhile command vessel. The atmosphere was so hot with breath and Allsops and gaiety there was no air left for Edward to waste on fretting. He’d swallowed four measures of rum before the spectacle began, and three more at intermission, so that when the makeshift canvas curtain fell after the final scene, he was the first to re-emerge for an encore, kicking off his fashionable shoes to curtsey with blistered feet before the thunderous applause of a hundred roaring devotees. 

He’d been whistled at and catcalled all evening, since the first moment he stepped into view in his outrageous attire, but where it had flushed him with shame at first, now it galvanised him with pleasure. He grinned at his audience, fussed with his skirts, made a show of revealing an ankle then concealing it again at the upsurge of hollering, allowed his arm to be taken by the falsely moustachioed Dundy and spun in a roughshod reel around the mast, and finally dashed off alone to collapse in a sodden heap in the storeroom backstage, chased by a hubbub of _Give us another, darling!_ and _Don’t go yet!_ and other less wholesome invitations that would have sent him on a tear of disciplinary action in the light of day. He swam with sweat beneath the dress. He knew he would be bruised and chafed in a dozen places tomorrow, but for now, his blood was so high he felt nothing but pure elation. Even the Arctic herself couldn’t cool him. As he lay there fanning his hot face, propped against a barrel of coal oil and a sack of wrinkled onions, he looked down the length of himself. The dress was rumpled, stained with sweat and a careless slop of beer, the hem torn where he’d tripped on it during his dance piece in Act One, but it struck him in that moment as heartbreakingly beautiful nonetheless, a graceful creation as sturdy as it was elegant. He stroked his palms down the pleats at his hips, fingering the pale floral motif of the fabric. It was nothing so fine as he’d seen on ladies in London, but he found it all the more appealing for that homeliness. Like himself, it was functional and lacked much redeeming embellishment. It flattered, in its own way, and did the job required of it. He touched the neckline, feeling where the lace gave way to the damp skin of his chest. His skin prickled with gooseflesh. His breath, which had begun to slow, quickened anew. 

The curtain flew aside suddenly. Edward yanked his hand away from himself. The entire wardroom piled in off the stage, a jumble of sweating levity, smeared with makeup and flushed with liquor. Obscurely ashamed, Edward sat up to join them. Congratulations and backslaps went around, everyone recounting their favourite moments (Edward tripping was a popular one), reciting lines, mimicking one another’s pratfalls. Edward had never seen such comradery amongst them all before, not even when they’d first set sail from Greenhithe, buoyant with hope and national pride. He enjoyed it a few minutes, soaking up the cheer, before it got the better of him. An enormous, shivering lassitude began to overtake him, cooling his emotions in time with his sweat. He got to his sore feet and begged off from the others, who were already pouring themselves new glasses of Allsops and whisky, and slipped out around the corner of the curtain. Onstage, the amateur entertainments had commenced, Mr Thorne engaging in an act of mesmerism with Mr Wallace as his nonplussed victim. Edward smiled at the unlikely command, “Bark like an otter, why don’t you!” as he passed. 

He didn’t go unnoticed as he left the hold, the crowd whooping when they spotted him, but he quieted them with a wave. By the time he reached the back of the room, he was all but forgotten, their attention reengaged by Mr Wallace’s wobbly attempt at barking. One person did not disregard him, however. Edward’s gaze caught that of Tom Hartnell, who was leaning against the ladderway with a mug in one hand, his blonde head bare and his knit jumper - clearly secondhand, from the length of the rolled-up sleeves - slouching open at the collar. The triangle of bare skin there, at Hartnell’s throat, tanned and dewey with sweat, arrested Edward’s eyes. He stumbled, and was obliged to stop and untangle his petticoats. Before he could set himself to rights, Hartnell put down his mug and stepped forward to help. “I’ve got it,” Edward mumbled, but his tongue felt thick suddenly and he said it too softly. Hartnell couldn’t have heard. 

“Here,” said Hartnell, bending to unsnag Edward’s poor mistreated skirt from a nail in the floor. Edward stood still to allow it. The lassitude that had overcome him was like a vibrating gong behind his ears - already struck, the peal fading, but the concussion lingering. His vision swam. He was aware of his bare ankles mere inches from Hartnell’s working hands. 

Hartnell rose to deposit the slack of his skirts into his arms. 

“Thank you,” said Edward, or thought he did. The hold was so loud he could hardly hear himself. 

Hartnell smiled. His eyes, bright in the rosy light of the hanging lanterns, were a beguiling shade of blue only a little lighter than Edward’s dress. “You’re welcome,” he said. Then, when Edward only continued to stand there, senseless as a bearcub dropped from a tree, “Your performance was fantastic.” Followed by, too late, “Sir.”

“Thank you,” said Edward again. His fingers dug into the handfuls of fabric in his arms. His heart hammered in his chest. Surely Hartnell could see it beating, his neckline was so low. Was his chest still blushing? Did the mussed hair there look rough and unappealing? Were his flushed cheeks splotchy? “I didn’t -” He stammered, flustered by the inexplicable urge to explain himself to an AB, to say something that would merit the way Hartnell was looking at him with soft interest. “I took to it better than I - than I’d expected.”

“I can see that,” said Hartnell. He cast his gaze down the length of Edward’s body and back up again. “It’s your colour, sir. If you don’t mind me saying.”

Edward didn’t, but he looked over his shoulder regardless, checking for eavesdroppers with an unquestioned intuition that didn’t suspect Hartnell of saying something shocking so much as something Edward didn’t want shared with anyone else. It seemed a private matter. “I think so too,” he admitted, when he was satisfied their conversation was unremarked. He hadn’t let himself think it before, but he recalled now, through the lens of hindsight, how he’d looked in Fitzjames’ mirror. The colour had indeed done him a kindness. 

“Are you going back to Terror now, sir?” Hartnell asked. Edward didn’t hear him clearly at first, and, when asked to repeat himself, it was necessary for him to lean closer and speak next to Edward’s ear.

“Oh,” said Edward, faintly, in response. “No. No, I’m - Just to Fitz- to Captain Fitzjames’ cabin. To change.”

“That’s a pity,” said Hartnell, still close. 

Edward looked directly into the loose neck of his jumper, although he felt he should avert his eyes. Had Hartnell always possessed such smooth and tawny skin? Had the tendons of his neck always been so well-formed? Edward couldn’t recall. He couldn’t recall much of anything right now. The drink had got to him. 

“It seems you might enjoy keeping it on a little longer, is all,” Hartnell went on. With one finger, casually deployed, he touched the heap of material in Edward’s hands. Then, with his knuckle, the bone of Edward’s wrist. 

Edward attempted to speak, failed, and attempted again. He wanted, with an abrupt instinct so acute it seemed ludicrous he might ever have behaved otherwise, to agree with whatever Hartnell suggested of him. “I might,” he whispered. Hartnell couldn’t possibly have heard, but he must have read Edward’s lips, for he smiled in reply. “But,” said Edward, regaining what must only have been a single vital spark in his muddled brain, “I can’t. It’s late, I’m hot, I’m -”

“Of course,” said Hartnell. He eased a step away. Edward wanted to sway after him. He nearly did so without a second thought. The distance between them seemed abruptly unbearable. Unconscionable, wasn’t it, that they had served together on the same ship for two long years and never stood this near to each other? 

“But,” Edward said. “But -” He didn’t know what he intended to say, and broke off. He couldn’t fathom what Hartnell’s warm gaze was asking of him. 

“It looks difficult to navigate, sir,” said Hartnell, rescuing him. “I imagine you needed a spare set of hands to get you into it. Won’t you need another to get you out?”

Yes, yes of course. Of course he would. Edward nodded. The gong in his skull was still vibrating, perhaps louder than before. He couldn’t muster a word. 

Hartnell tipped his head toward the gangway. “Why don’t you go on, then, get a start. I’ll catch you up. We’ll get you seen to.”

Edward couldn’t have moved an inch except for the permission of that gracious nod. It set his feet to motion. He slipped past Hartnell, holding his breath, and into the gangway, where it was shadowy and empty. Its privacy gave him leave to exhale, which he did in a shuddering burst. He hurried along, toward Fitzjames’ cabin. He couldn’t think, and didn’t want to try. Only vague impressions occurred to him: that it was a relief to leave the press and noise of the hold, that everyone was engaged with the pageant and wouldn’t come looking for him, that Hartnell’s hand had touched the small of his back as he’d gone by. 

He didn’t make it all the way to Fitzjames’ cabin. In the corridor outside, in the alcove next to the steward’s bunk where a lonely candle flickered, he lost all momentum and collapsed against the bulkhead. Dropping his skirts, he stood pressed to the panelling, his heart galloping. When Hartnell appeared, so quickly that propriety could barely have been observed before his departure of the hold, Edward stayed him at a distance with one outstretched hand. Hartnell obeyed, pausing in the corridor, his head ducked to accommodate a beam. He regarded Edward with an attentive expression. The candlelight lit up his blonde hair with deep golds and ambers. 

“I don’t want to take it off,” Edward blurted. He tangled his fingers in the pleats and lifted them, explaining himself the only way he could. No one could be unmoved by the sight of such plain loveliness. He despaired at the thought of shucking out of this magical thing. It would all be over if he did, unmade; just himself again, unruly and ill-fitted, a lumbering farce at odds with the nascent sensibilities in him. 

“Alright,” said Hartnell, after a long pause. “You needn’t.” His amiable mouth quirked. “I wish you wouldn’t.”

Edward nodded shakily. They were of a mind, then, on that, whatever else. He dropped his hand. 

Hartnell approached with a cautious tread, as though Edward might bolt at any moment. Edward did not. He stood affixed until Hartnell reached out and touched his wrist. He allowed his hand to be turned over and caressed with a thumb. He consented to have his knuckles raised and kissed. He held still as Hartnell touched the line of his bare shoulder. Under the dress, his nipples were tight as screws. Farther down, he was dampening his petticoats. Hartnell touched their cheeks together, his hand still clasping Edward’s fingers, and Edward sighed out all the breath in his lungs. When he received it back, it came direct from Hartnell’s mouth, conveyed on the gentle stroke of Hartnell’s tongue. Edward accepted it gladly, hungrily. His stomach ached for it, and his groin and the bare soles of his feet. He let Hartnell suck his tongue, their mouths sharp together from the taste of liquor. Eventually, when Edward’s chin was wet with their mingled spit, the sensitive inside of his mouth mapped and navigated in full, Hartnell shifted against him, pressing his thigh between Edward’s legs.

“ _Mr Hartnell_ ,” Edward gasped without meaning to, stricken by the ravenous, receptive clench of his organ. He tried to say more, to explain his unreasonable shock, but that was all he could manage.

“Yes, sir?” said Hartnell, drawing back to look at Edward directly. He was drunk, that was for certain, but his eyes were clear, and Edward saw in them that even now he had only to say the word and Hartnell would subside, doffing a nonexistent cap, never to speak of it again. His gaze was that steady, and that kind. 

Edward sank, trembling, back against the bulkhead. 

Hartnell leaned into him, tucking his face in the curve of Edward’s neck. His wet mouth lipped at Edward’s collarbone, the crest of his shoulder, the ticklish little spot above his armpit. His hands were busy at Edward’s waist, gathering Edward’s skirts up in rustling folds. “You’ll see, sir,” Hartnell said into the tender notch below Edward’s ear, his breath all rum and sugar. “You’ll see I know what I’m doing, that I know how to do right by a lady.” 

Edward’s throat closed with a strangled noise, but Hartnell was already withdrawing and going to his knees. He gathered Edward’s skirts in both arms and ducked beneath them. Edward clawed backward for the chair rail, a stanchion, a knothole in the planks, anything at all to keep himself upright. Hartnell touched his naked thighs. Then, with a shattering sensation made all the greater by his inability to see it occuring, Hartnell’s mouth enveloped his prick. 

Edward sobbed, “ _Oh_ ,” as it happened, his every muscle wrenching. He clapped a hand over his mouth, sinking his teeth into the heel of his palm to muffle himself, but it was too late. The cry had torn out of him and couldn’t be stuffed back in. He was as good as finished - as an officer, as a man, as anything but a raw nerve insensible to any coherent law of morality or reason. And because, if he was finished as a man, he may as well be finished as a woman too, he put his other shaking hand on the rounded shape of Hartnell’s bobbing head beneath his skirts and let that joyful lawless freedom bear him up into oblivion.


End file.
